“Jane Chockey!” answered her mistress, only needing this spur to set her a-panting the more to her purpose, “we’ll go on.”
And on they went. Peggy with a measured tread; Chockey plodding after. Into the inn-yard, where even now the great coach with its four bays waited the signal to start.
The passengers were piling on; and, atop already, quipped a trio of college lads in beavers. There stood mine host and hostess, maids, men, boys, cooks, and scullions; tips were tossed, baggage packed in the boot; farewells spoken; candles held high, lashes cracked; prancing, pawing; a rattle, a door-bang, curtsies, bows,—
“All h’up for the London mail!” shouted the coachman merrily.
And Lady Peggy and her woman, neatly sandwiched between a fat, fussy dowager and a swearing, tearing old gentleman who together absorbed the most of the vehicle and all the attention of their fellow passengers, found themselves on the road to town.
No one paid the least heed to them, save that, at the stops, the guard came civilly to ask Chockey if her mistress required any refreshment, to the which Chockey, well prepared, always answered “no”; since, to raise their veils might betray their identity. So ’twas in hunger, silence and oblivion that the momentous journey was taken.
When they crossed the heath, the testy old gentleman did turn toward Peggy, thereby flattening her the more, and, pulling out a brace of pistols, said:
“Have no fears, Madam, I’ve traveled this road these sixty years, probably you have yourself”—thus paying tribute to Peggy’s now trembling agitation, which he pleasantly mistook for age.
“And the damned rascals, Madam, know better’n to attack the coach when I’m aboard. You’re not in fear?” now bending a pair of sharp old eyes on the Brussels lace.
Lady Peggy, smothering her laughter, and recalling how often, half-a-score years ago, she’s sat on this old gentleman’s knee (he was a friend of her father’s), puts hand to ear, and nudges Chockey behind the broad back of the dowager.